By the Stars Men Guide Themselves
by xahra99
Summary: When Altair and Malik steal an Apple of Eden from the Templars in Persepolis-they all get more than they bargained for. Travelling forwards in time, they meet their successors and try to unravel the mysteries of the Eden fragments. A tale of the Assassins. Standalone, but part of my Crusades series. Oneshot. Gen. Complete


By the Stars Men Guide Themselves

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99.

'God sets on the earth landmarks, and by the stars men guide themselves.'

 _The Qur'an._

Chapter One: _Persepolis, 1200. (AH 514)_

The city sprawled across the valley like an empty throne. Tombs hewn from solid rock pierced the cliffs. Beneath Mount Mercy, terraces sank in steps to golden meadows and meadows stretched towards a range of purple mountains.

Persepolis had lain ruined for a thousand years or more. The great general Iskander burned the palace to the ground, and time had finished what Iskander had started. The terraces were mazes of stones and broken statues, and the paint that clung in places to the buildings reminded wayfarers of the city's former glory.

Few visitors came. Each year a few men travelled from the nearby city of Estakhr to marvel at the ruins. Shepherds grazed their flocks among the monuments, and moved on with the rains. The city kept its secrets well. Weeks could pass without a single human footstep heard within the empty streets. But there were two living men in Persepolis that day.

The rest were all dead.

Malik al-Sayf ran a fingernail across his knife and frowned. The blade was badly notched from striking bone, and he doubted that the chip would sharpen out. He could do nothing about the damage until they returned to camp, so he tucked the dagger back into his sash and watched the sun set as he waited. Across the meadow, stars were coming out.

"That was too easy," he said.

Altaïr ibn La-Ahad glanced up from his seat against a toppled stone griffon. The statue's sculpted eyes were streaked with blood. "Why must you always be so pessimistic? The Templars have never been a match for us."

Malik, who could think of any number of times when the Templars had nearly beaten the Assassins, shrugged.

"Did it ever occur to you that we are superior?"

"You?" Malik snorted. "No."

"We have what we came for." Altaïr reached into a pouch at his belt and held up a grooved golden sphere. ""Do you have a better explanation?"

"Yes," Malik said. "It's a trap."

He expected Altaïr to disagree, but the other Assassin nodded as he replaced the Eden fragment in his pouch. "You're right," he said. "This place is too exposed. We should return to Estakhr."

"Not so fast, Assassins!" called a voice in Farsi.

Malik sighed and drew his knife. "We're riding back to town," he called as Altaïr reached for his sword. "If you're wise, you'll let us go."

"Templars," Altaïr muttered. "Keep them talking while I think of a plan."

"Nobody can speak that long!" snapped Malik as he scanned the terrace. He saw no movement in the shadows, but heard a creak as someone drew a bow. He pitched his voice to carry and shouted "We're going to leave one way or another. Let us be, or we'll thin your ranks further."

"You are in no position to make threats," snapped the Templar. "Return the Apple. Then we'll talk."

Malik glanced over his shoulder at Altaïr. He wasn't surprised when Altaïr shook his head. "The Apple's safer in our hands," he argued. "We'll seal it away."

"It _was_ sealed!" The voice from the shadows held a definite hint of exasperation. "Sealed, and guarded. The guards are dead, and you soon will be. Hand it over."

Malik shook his head. "Show your face."

He doubted that the Templars would comply, but to his surprise he heard the scrape of leather on stone as a man stepped from the shadows and made his way towards them in the gathering dusk. He was younger than Malik had expected, with a spade-shaped beard and long oiled hair draping his shoulders. "My name is Arsames," he said, stopping by a bull-head capital. "My title is no business of yours."

"My name is Malik al-Sayf," said Malik, shifting to put the Templar between them and the archer's most likely location. "This is Altaïr ibn La-Ahad, Grand Master of the Syrian Assassins. You seem like a reasonable man. Perhaps we can talk."

"Most men are reasonable." Arsames glanced at the corpses sprawled across the stones and grimaced. "If given the chance."

"It's true we stole the Eden fragment," Malik admitted. "But the Apple twists men's minds. I've seen it do strange things. Believe me when I say you're better off without it."

Arsames gave Malik a mirthless smile. "You are Assassin thieves. Don't dare pretend you're doing us a favour."

"We speak the truth," Malik said.

"You serve the Lie," Arsames snapped. "This is Persia. We know about Assassins. Your fight against the new world is futile. We'll kill you both, and take the Apple from your body."

Malik shook his head, hoping that Altaïr had a plan. "Better men than you have tried," he said. "Here's what's going to happen. Put down your weapons, and let us leave in peace. Or join your friends." He shrugged. "It is your choice."

"None in heaven or earth knows the unseen except God," said Arsames. "But it is possible to guess. You may be skilled, but you're outnumbered. Some outcomes are predictable." He raised one hand. "If bloody."

Malik heard the dry click of a bow. The Assassins were fast, but no man could outrun arrows. He realized that he couldn't possibly evade the shot in time. He reeled back, blinded by a sudden flash of light. When he opened his eyes, he saw the arrow suspended in mid-air an arm's length from his face. An unearthly glow illuminated the whole scene.

Malik tried to swallow around a suddenly dry throat. He turned from the Templars, dread twisting his stomach, and saw the Apple glowing like a lamp in Altaïr's hands. Given the circumstances, he'd rather have been shot.

"What have you done?" hissed Arsames.

Altaïr stared intently at the Apple. The artefact brightened. Its yellow glow paled to incandescent white. The shadows fled across the stones and vanished, bleached into oblivion by brightness. Malik flung up his arm to cover his face. His knife burned in his hand. Far away, he heard somebody scream.

Chapter Two: _Rome, 1499_

It was dark when Malik woke, and he had no idea how long he'd been out. The floor beneath him was smooth cold marble, and the air was cool and sweet with incense. Someone grabbed Malik's shoulders. He lashed out and punched Altaïr in the face.

"Malik!" Altaïr grabbed his wrist. "It's me!"

Malik doubted the knowledge would have stayed his hand. "What did you do?" he demanded as he wrenched his arm from Altaïr's grasp.

"I?" Altaïr had the audacity to sound indignant. "I saved your life."

"There was no need!"

"Tell that to the archer," Altaïr said. "Your woman will thank me, even if you won't."

Malik didn't like to think he was responsible for what had happened, even indirectly. "Do you still have the Apple?"

Altaïr reached into a pouch at his belt and drew out the Eden fragment. The golden sphere looked harmless, though Malik knew it was nothing of the sort. He took the artefact from Altaïr and held it up. The orb gleamed smugly in the dim light.

"Where are we?" he asked. "How do we return?"

They were in an empty corridor as high as three tall men. Across the hall, a high-arched window looked out across a city ten times Jerusalem's size. The window was barred by a metal grille, and the walls were richly decorated with gilded patterns. The crescents and palm trees reminded Malik of Damascus. "Is this Syria?"

Altaïr shook his head. "I don't think so," he said. He wore unfamiliar clothes; white robes in separate pieces, with more layers and laces than seemed necessary. Malik realized that he wore the same strange garb. The clothes were frayed around the cuffs, as if he'd had them for years. The left sleeve of the jacket was sewn shorter to accommodate his missing arm.

He examined the Apple while Altaïr explored the corridor. No amount of pressing, twisting, or shaking had any effect. Malik knocked the Apple on the wall (gently, he wasn't stupid) but nothing happened.

"Malik," Altaïr said from the other end of the hall. "Look at this."

Malik looked up. A wrought-iron gate blocked one end of the corridor. The other opened onto a dimly-lit gallery. Altaïr stood in the centre of the arch. "Come and see," he said.

Malik rose, fighting a headache that threatened to split his head in two, and went to Altaïr's side. The arch led to a makeshift gallery of narrow planks. Half-empty pots, crumpled dust-sheets and scaffolding indicated that painting was in progress, but Malik saw no workmen. "What is this place?" he asked, passing the Apple back to Altaïr. "A palace?"

Altaïr shook his head. "A church."

Malik had never seen a temple like it. Every panel in the hall was painted with figures, each twice or three times human size. Clever shading and bright colours tricked the eye into believing the space was much larger than it was. He had not realized that he was staring until Altaïr caught his arm. "Look!"

Malik followed Altaïr's gaze. He saw a crowd of people gathered in the vast hall below. They bent their heads in prayer before an altar as a red-robed man droned a prayer in Latin. Malik guessed that they were Christians. The hall seemed far too sophisticated to be Frankish, but Malik had never spent much time with Christians he wasn't trying to kill. "Is this Francia?" he said. "I thought they were barbarians. Much has changed."

"Not everything," said Altaïr. "Look below."

A dark figure climbed across the scaffolding with stealthy grace. The man's peaked cowl was familiar, but his black costume would be stifling beneath a Syrian sun. Malik watched as the man crossed the hall upon a wire, leapt to a platform hanging above the priest's head and knelt. "Who is he? He looks like an Assassin."

"Who can tell," Altaïr said. "But that priest looks like a Templar. Does the Apple mean for us to help him?"

"He doesn't look as if he needs it. Besides, would you thank a stranger who got in your way? We should help-if there's trouble."

Below, the black-clad Assassin continued his stealthy approach to the altar. Altaïr nodded in approval. "He's skilled. Let us move closer."

They climbed onto the scaffolding. The chanting priest below masked any sound they might have made. Altaïr settled back against the wall. Malik's gaze strayed to the murals. He was wondering whether the curtains at the base of the walls were real or just skilfully painted when he saw one of the dust-sheets move.

What he had taken for a bundle of rags turned out to be the Persian. Arsames rolled over, blinked, and recoiled. He gripped the edge of the scaffolding with both hands and rose shakily to his feet, pressing his back against the wall as if the planks were no wider than a finger.

Malik caught Altaïr's sleeve. "That is the Persian Templar," he said, pointing at Arsames. "I can't make the Apple work. Perhaps he knows how to get us back."

Altaïr's blade flicked out. "Then we shall ask," he said.

The sound of chanting faded. The Persian looked up and saw them both with steel in hand. His face paled to a Frankish hue. "What are you doing? This is some Assassin trick!"

Despite his accusations, he spoke quietly. The congregation were too intent upon their ritual to look up, and the foreign Assassin was focused on his prey.

"It's no trick," Malik said, dismayed. He had hoped the Templar might recognize the painted chapel. Instead the Persian seemed more confused than they were.

"Then what is it?"

To Malik's surprise, Altaïr answered. "We can't explain what's happened," he said, sheathing his blade with a click. "Perhaps this is the Apple's doing. Perhaps not. We still have so much to learn. But we have at least one thing in common. We are all here, and we have a better chance of solving this mystery together than we'll ever have alone."

Arsames laughed. "Do you think to lure me close with words, then kill me?" he said. "I see through your lies, Assassin!"

He gathered himself and jumped across the hall onto a wooden platform suspended by chains from the ceiling. He landed badly, arms flailing as he fought to stay upright. The platform swung wildly. Arsames grabbed the chain, which only made the platform more unstable. He shrieked as he slid over the side of the platform and hung by one hand.

Altaïr vaulted onto the platform and stretched towards Arsames. Malik ran towards the gallery, hoping to reach the Templar from the other side of the hall. The foreign Assassin leapt towards the altar and buried his blade in the priest's heart.

Arsames recoiled from Altaïr, lost his grip, and plummeted sixty feet towards the tiled floor.

Lances of unearthly light pierced the floor, trapping Arsames in a brilliant cage, his fall arrested in mid-air. The Templar's eyes widened in fear as the air grew luminous, incandescent, and then whitely opaque. Cold radiance swallowed them as the world dissolved away.

Chapter Three: _Nassau, 1716_

Malik opened his eyes upon an opal sky. A path of light crossed turquoise waves towards the setting sun. The weather was as warm as Damascus in summer despite the late hour. The air smelt of salt and drying fish. He lifted his head and saw a ragged urchin reaching for his knife.

Malik caught the boy's tattered shirt and shoved him away. The boy ran off. Altaïr lay beside him, face-down in the sand. There were other people on the beach, but nobody paid any attention to them. Malik, mindful of his own reaction, reached out at arms' length and tipped Altaïr onto his back.

Altaïr woke abruptly. He wore peasant's clothes, and his cropped hair and beardless face looked strange without his hood. He crawled to his knees, scanning the strand. "Where are we?"

Malik looked down at his own clothes for clues. He wore a dark vest of salt-roughened leather, ragged trousers, and a torn silk scarf around his left arm. The strange garments felt familiar. They told him nothing. He shook his head and extended his hand. They pulled each other up, sand shifting beneath their bare feet.

A village of crude huts clustered like flotsam at the high-tide mark. Every wall had holes in. The roofs were only partly thatched, implying a warm climate, a careless lack of planning, or both. A sturdy city rose behind the cabins, and a stone-built fort loomed above the rooftops. Palm trees grew between the buildings and brightly coloured birds flew between the branches.

They walked up the beach and found a tumbledown shack roofed with palm leaves. A tiny Frankish man sat behind a driftwood counter. A single glass bottle and several none-too clean cups held pride of place upon the counter. The Frank gripped the neck of the bottle and watched them with suspicious, jaundiced eyes.

"Where are we?" Altaïr asked him.

To Malik's surprise, the man answered in Arabic, "Long night, was it?" He released his grip on the bottle, dusted off his threadbare jacket and squinted at them both. "You're in Nassau, mate. Now, are you going t' buy a drink, or not?"

The name meant nothing to Malik. He glanced over at Altaïr, who shook his head. "Where's that?"

The Frank chortled. "New Providence." He looked from Malik to Altaïr. "The Bahamas? West Indies?"

Malik had never heard of the Bahamas. He ransacked his memories, sifting through his recollections of traders' tales and tattered books. "What date?"

"Fourteenth of September," said the Frank promptly.

"What year?" Altaïr demanded.

The Franke glanced from Malik to Altaïr and closed his hand over the bottle. "Just how much rum 'ave you been drinkin'?"

Malik reached over the table and seized the old man's frayed jacket. "We don't know where we are," he snapped. "We don't know _when_ we are. We don't know what this place is, or what is going on. Speak, or you'll face our blades."

He must have looked more threatening than he felt. The Frank released the bottle and held out both his hands placatingly. "Seventeen sixteen! It's the year of our lord seventeen sixteen!"

Malik let the old Frank go. He staggered, cursing, and lurched into the table. The makeshift table tilted as one leg collapsed. The bottle spilled but did not shatter. The Frank grovelled for the flask. He caught the bottle, licked spirits from his palm, and cursed them soundly.

"Seventeen sixteen." Altaïr said. "What's that in _hijra_?"

Malik did a rapid mental calculation. "1128."

"Six hundred and fourteen years," said Altaïr, faster than Malik expected.

Dread sank long fingers into Malik's heart. "That's not possible!" _Six hundred years. Thirty generations. The same length of time between our era and the Muslims' prophet._

"It makes no sense," Altaïr agreed. "But I've seen the Apples do strange things. That Frankish church we saw -I've no idea where that was. Another time? Another land? Or was it both? The Apples always raise more questions than they answer."

"We should have left that accursed orb in the desert where we found it," Malik snapped, masking fear with anger. "Why has the Apple brought us here? How can we get back?"

Altaïr frowned. "I did not mean for this to happen. But I sense there is some reason we're here. There must be other Assassins." He glanced over Malik's shoulder at the rooftops. "Let's find them."

They left the beach and headed into town. The buildings looked as if they had washed up on the tide. Everything was salvaged or repurposed. There were more tents than houses; little more than sheets of canvas folded over lines. Grass grew along the streets, and pigs snouted through the gutters. They heard music, crackling fires, the clink of coins and glasses.

"A strange place," Malik said to Altaïr.

"Very," Altaïr agreed. He tipped his head back and stared up at the massive fort. The fortress scowled back through narrow windows. Torches flickered on the ramparts. A metal cage creaked mournfully in the wind.

Malik followed Altaïr's gaze. "You think the Assassins are there?"

Altaïr shook his head. "We're always moved in secret. This place isn't Masyaf."

"I don't think that's an Assassin castle," Malik agreed. He squinted against the fading light and saw a tattered black flag tethered to a wooden scaffold. A man crouched beside the flag and watched the gemlike sunset as if he wished to steal it. Malik pointed. "There. That's our Assassin."

The Assassin spread his arms and dived from the scaffold as if leaping into water. The buildings blocked their line of sight and the city swallowed him. Altaïr was in motion before the man hit the ground. Malik followed.

They chased the pirate through a tangle of narrow streets and alleys, and soon discovered they were not the only hunters. Scarlet-coated soldiers searched the streets. Their long sabres were poorly suited to the narrow confines of the city, and the Assassin evaded them at every turn. When the soldiers paused to regroup, their quarry dropped lightly from an awning and ran soundlessly to a narrow jetty. A tall ship waited in the harbour. Her crew had already slipped the anchor when the Assassin leapt aboard.

Malik and Altaïr put on an extra burst of speed. The salt wind carried a deep groaning sound as the ship began to move. She sailed out slowly, gathering speed as the breeze filled her sails. A black flag fluttered from the crow's nest, and a blackbird spread its wings across the prow.

A gulf of black water glittered between the jetty and the ship by the time Malik and Altaïr reached the end of the jetty. Malik gauged the gap. There was no point in jumping. They wouldn't have made it even if Altaïr could swim. "We were too slow," he said.

"You were too slow." Altaïr countered.

"I?" Malik raised his eyebrows. "You were the one struggling to keep up." He stepped back from the water and saw a squad of soldiers gathering in the square at the end of the jetty as he turned. "We've got company."

Altaïr's expression didn't change. "Are they Templars?" he asked, his sword already in his hand.

"Does it matter?" Malik snarled as the soldiers filed along the jetty. There were more men then he'd thought-twenty or thirty, at least. They were all well-armed. He reached for his knife, wondering how long he could keep Altaïr afloat.

The soldiers approached cautiously. Their faces were grim beneath their strange triangular hats. Brass buttons gleamed at their cuffs as their fingers blanched around sword-hilts. One dark-skinned face stood out. Malik scowled. "Is that Arsames?"

The Persian wore a scarlet soldier's coat. He carried a sabre as if he knew how to use it. Around his sword-arm he wore a white arm-band stitched with a red cross. Malik measured the distance between them. He judged that he could probably reach Arsames if he leapt into the crowd, but without a sword he'd have little chance of striking out before the other soldiers killed him.

"Stop!"

Malik looked up in surprise and saw Arsames watching him with a tight-lipped glare. The Persian held up one hand. The soldiers straggled to a halt, sabres raised, scowling at Arsames' command.

Malik and Altaïr exchanged glances. The sea sucked at the jetty as the Assassin's ship continued its course towards the horizon. One of the soldiers said "Sir, but-" His complaint was cut short as the sun sank below the horizon, and whatever he had been about to say was lost in a flash of incandescent light.

Chapter Four _: Boston, 1775_

Malik woke in a pile of autumn leaves. Spindly northern trees cast a mosaic of white sky and chipped bark over his head. He shook leaves from his hair and looked around. A brisk breeze rustled the branches. The temperature would have been uncomfortably cold if he hadn't been warmly dressed in layers of leather and fur clothing. As it was, cold nibbled at his nose and the tips of his ungloved fingers.

"You're awake," Altaïr said, with little ceremony. He paced the fringes of the small clearing, peering off into the trees. "Get up. I hear shouting." He tilted his head. A wide streak of black paint covered his eyes. "Explosions, too. They're coming closer. We should go."

Malik lurched to his feet. His cheek itched, and when he scratched his face his fingers came away stained with terracotta. He wiped his hand on his trousers and automatically checked his knife. A wedge-shaped hatchet had replaced his straight-bladed Arabic _sikin._ The discovery did not improve Malik's mood. He looked around. "Have you seen the Templar?"

Altaïr shook his head. "There's no sign of him. What do you think his purpose was, back there?"

Malik had to admit that he had no idea. "Perhaps this is all some sort of Templar plot." he said.

"That makes no sense," Altaïr said. "They could have killed us in Persepolis. Why go to all this trouble?"

"You're right," Malik agreed. "It's too elaborate." Smoke drifted through the trees, carrying with it a vague sense of unease. "Where are we?"

"Let's search this forest. Perhaps we'll find an answer."

They went ahead through the trees. Malik drew his hatchet, and was relieved to find the weapon balanced well in his hand. The ground sloped down towards a narrow neck of land. Water glittered between the trees on either side. Explosions hammered his ears.

They came around a rock and saw a little knot of men in scarlet coats. They raised long metal clubs as the Assassins approached. One man peered at Altaïr suspiciously. "Have I seen you before?" he asked.

"You don't know us," Malik said with certainty.

Another of the group spoke. "Are you for the British, or the colonies?"

"Neither," Altaïr said.

The man angled his metal stick towards Altaïr's face. "Then hand over your guns," he said, "and nobody gets hurt."

"We don't have guns," Malik said. The word was alien, though it was clear from the man's demeanour that he expected them to be intimidated.

The man spat a dark liquid between stained teeth. "Then hand over your weapons."

"If you wish," Altaïr said. He walked up to the man who had spoken and struck him in the throat. Malik caught a glimpse of the hidden blade jutting from his knuckles before Altaïr flexed his arm and the blade slid smoothly back into its housing. The man choked. His hands went to his throat, but did nothing to stop the gushing blood. Altaïr caught him as he fell, wrapped his arm around the soldier's throat and used him as a shield before throwing him into his companions. The soldiers scattered, fumbling with their guns. Their attention was all focused on Altaïr, and they were sufficiently distracted that Malik walked up and opened one man's throat without the rest even noticing. Altaïr killed another man as the soldier Malik had stabbed collapsed silently.

There was an ear-splitting explosion. Rank-smelling smoke filled the air as leaves showered from the trees. A brand raked Malik's side. He looked down and saw the leather of his coat neatly parted, the edges sizzling as if cauterised.

"Nobody move."

When the smoke dispersed Malik saw a red-coated soldier sat on a small hill, one knee drawn up to steady his long gun. Smoke drifted from the barrel. Malik recognized similarities to the crossbows the Franks favoured. _Projectiles_ , he thought. _I'm sure of it. They're effective, but hard to aim. We could be lucky._

 _We could not._

Altaïr stiffened, tensed to spring. The gun swung towards him. Malik wasted a second wondering if they could die in the future. _Probably_ , he thought. _Isn't that the way life always ends?_

A second explosion cracked the air. Malik felt nothing. He looked over at Altaïr, who seemed unhurt and down at himself. He readied himself to rush the gunner just as the soldier frowned. His gun slipped from his fingers as he toppled, very slowly, onto his back.

Malik caught a stealthy movement between two trees. "You can come out," he invited sourly.

"I'm not here to fight." Arsames stepped out from behind a tree. He wore the same scarlet uniform as the five dead men and clutched a gun in his hands.

Altaïr raised his eyebrows. "Yet you come armed."

"I would be a fool if I did not arm myself." Arsames conceded. "I came to trade. You have the Apple, yes?"

Altaïr nodded.

"Show me."

Altaïr untied a pouch at his waist and withdrew the orb. Pale sunlight gleamed from the artefact's smoke-coloured surface. "We killed your men to get it," he said. "I won't give it up."

"I don't expect you to," Arsames said with more diplomacy than Malik had expected. "We are still enemies. But perhaps together we can discover the truth."

Malik nodded. "We're enemies in our world," he said. "But this is not our world."

There was a moment of silence between them. Then Altaïr said "What do you propose?" just as the Templar asked "What do you mean, _not our world_?"

"Watch," Malik gave the Templar a deliberate glare. He went over to the rock where the fallen soldier rested. The man was still alive-if only just. Bloody bubbles burst between his lips. Malik caught his hair and lifted his head. The man was still aware enough to groan.

"What year is it?" Malik asked.

The soldier gasped, wheezing. His lips were edged with blue. Malik judged he had at most an hour left to live. His eyes rolled, the pupils dilated and black. "Seventeen hundred seventy-five."

"What is this place?"

He spat. Blood-stained drool streaked his chin. "Bunker Hill."

The name mean nothing to Malik. He cast an experienced eye across the soldier's body and saw far too much blood. The projectile fired by Arsames' gun had caused too much damage for the man to live, but not enough to kill him quickly. Malik drew his axe. The soldier caught the movement and tried to push Malik aside with hands that held no force. Blood rimmed his fingernails. "Don't," he pleaded.

Malik swept the hatchet beneath the soldier's chin. "Find peace, my friend."

Arsames crossed the clearing with two quick steps. He caught Malik's shoulder and shoved him to the ground. Malik rolled and found his feet as Arsames stared down at the body. "He's dead."

Malik cleaned his hatchet in a patch of melting snow before he re-sheathed the weapon. He wiped his bloody hand over the rough fur of his trousers. "What did you expect? Did you hear him? What he said?"

"I heard," Arsames said. The crashing guns filled the silence. Arsames looked at the soldier and straightened. "He didn't need to die."

"He was dying already," Malik pointed out. "Would you leave him one more hour to salve your conscience?"

Arsames' voice was cold. "You Assassins always turn to violence."

"You shot him." Malik glared at the Persian Templar. "Don't mock me for hypocrisy when it was you who pulled the trigger."

The Persian scowled. "You are jackals," he said. "I don't approve. But there is more at stake here than my pride."

"Agreed," Altaïr said slowly. "We must unite. Let us desire the truth more than we hate each other. The year is -or seems to be-seventeen-seventy-five. That's 1189 in _hijra_. It was eleven-twenty-eight in the city on the sea. Before..." He shrugged. "I don't know."

"Why?" Arsames demanded.

"We thought that you might have the answers," Altaïr said sardonically. He turned to Malik. "It seems that Templar teachings are no wiser than the Creed. Let's get up high, and see what we can see. That smoke is coming closer. I don't like the idea of those-" he struggled over the pronunciation- "those guns."

The Templar huddled uneasily in the shadow of the trunk as Malik and Altaïr climbed the tree. The hill provided a natural vantage point, but thick branches obscured much of the view from ground level. The trees were nearly as sturdy as climbing a tower, although the branches grew thinner as they nearest the top of the canopy. Low sun lanced through the branches. From the look of the sky, it was mid-morning.

Malik peered through a screen of budding vegetation. He saw a narrow valley beneath another hill. Two armies faced each other in the field. One army wore red, the other blue, although Malik saw no livery. Sea shimmered on each side of the peninsula. Stone walls, piles of brush and rail-fences crossed the narrow neck of land. Shouts of "Fire!" and "Incoming!" carried on the breeze.

"Malik," said Altaïr, "look."

"I see," Malik replied. They watched as one man in an outfit like their own left the blue army and ran towards the red. He crossed a dark patch of bare earth where the spring grass had worn to mud by the pressure of so many feet, and stopped to crouch behind some rocks. Sparks flashed from the barrels of the guns across the field. Malik smelled burning on the wind. A spray of earth kicked up against the rocks. Men on either side crumpled like cut puppets.

The branches swayed as Altaïr adjusted his grip. "How can one man prevail against so many?"

Malik shook his head. Bullets cracked from the rock, striking sparks. The Assassin shielded his face. As soon as the barrage ceased he leapt up and ran on, dodging towards the redcoats like a hare. He reached the hill on the other side of the field and disappeared into the sheltering trees.

"He knows how to use the environment," Altaïr said approvingly.

"Should we follow?" Malik said aloud.

Altaïr squinted at the smoke-stained horizon. "I don't think the Apple sent us here to follow Assassins. We have had little luck with that course so far."

"If we're not here to meet Assassins, then why are we here?" Malik frowned. "Do you think we're meant to change the future?" The thought disturbed him, and he was glad when Altaïr shook his head.

"I think we're here to witness," he said. "Let's get down, and we can talk."

They descended the tree. The bark was rougher than smooth stone and Malik's palm was smarting by the time his boots hit ground.

"What did you see?" Arsames asked anxiously.

Malik wiped his grazed hand upon his jacket. "A great battle."

"Between Assassins?" Arsames looked from Malik to Altaïr. "Between Templars?"

"Between men," Malik said. The war troubled him. The Assassins favoured public murders, but he had never witnessed death on such a scale. The sight disturbed him more than he could say. He looked up into a burning sun. Rays of light spread across the forest floor, banishing shadows with their unnatural brightness, and the strange world bled away.

Chapter Five: _London, 1868_

Afterimages flickered across Malik's vision. He felt cold tiles at his back as he slid downwards across a slick, wet surface. The sensation forced his eyes open. Dark sky wheeled around him. He rolled onto his chest, right hand reaching for the dagger at his belt. His fingers touched rough fabric instead of his leather scabbard. He flipped the cloth back, found the knife, and drove it downwards. There was a moment of resistance before the blade's tip caught in the wooden beams beneath the tiles. Malik jerked to a halt. He enjoyed a moment of comfortable security before Altaïr skidded down the roof and slammed into him. "Altaïr, take care!"

Altaïr dug his fingers into the cracks between the tiles and spidered away, balancing on black-gloved hands and the toes of his boots. Malik looked around for the Templar and found him perched uneasily across the ridgepole. "Are you comfortable up there?"

" _Get me down,_ " hissed Arsames through gritted teeth.

Malik grinned and turned away to view the city. Houses stretched as far as he could see. The place was far larger even than that first Frankish town. It was a place of bricks and grime. Every building was dark and slick with rain, and most of them were dirty. Greasy orange lights burned upon street corners. Chimneys gouted black smoke into the greying sky, and crows blew like cinders through the steam. The Frankish men and women who walked the streets below them hurried with bent heads. They wore long clothes in dull colours. Malik saw nobody who looked like him.

He wedged his feet in the gutter and reached up to pull his hood across his face. A tall black hat covered with silk tipped forwards and slid across his eyes.

Altaïr reached out and adjusted the hat so it stood upright. "A fine hat," he said.

"You should see yourself," Malik looked down at his clothes. "Why is everything so dark? We look like _Badawi_."

"Black makes sense here. This may not be Frankia, but it's a dark place." Altaïr pointed into the darkness. "Look at the river."

Malik saw a boat floating down a darkly gleaming river towards a castle that did not look too different to the Frankish forts in the Holy Land. A slender man stood on top of the boat; feet planted comfortably apart, hands behind his back. His black-gloved fingers gripped an eagle-headed cane. The boat rocked as the current quickened, and the man adjusted his stance.

Altaïr hooked his boots over the gutter and slid down beside Malik. "He must be an Assassin,"

Summer-coloured light glinted from one high cheekbone as The Assassin turned. The young man became a graceful, predatory girl, hair braided and pinned tightly to her head. Malik nodded. "Yes. But he's a woman."

Altaïr shaded his eyes and peered closer. His mouth opened. "You're right."

"As are you," Malik retorted.

"The Creed does not speak of women." Altaïr smiled at Malik, teeth bright against his dark clothes. "No doubt Nusaybah has much to say upon the subject."

"She has much to say on any subject."

"You would not have it many other way," Altaïr said. The Assassin girl leapt from the boat to the embankment. "She's leaving us behind. Let's move closer."

Malik looked up at the roof-ridge. "Then you can fetch the Templar," he said. "You've got two hands."

They extracted Arsames from the roof with some difficulty, crept down to the street and crossed the river on a bridge. The wide embankment was lined with metal poles. A lantern bearer walked along the line with a ladder on one shoulder. He paused at each lamp to coax the small flames into life.

The Assassin woman glanced at the lamplighter with pale eyes and scaled the wall with a precision Malik wasn't sure he could manage. She perched on a smokestack like a hunched and ruffled crow. Motionless, she blended well with her surroundings.

"She moves well," Altaïr said quietly. Malik silently agreed. He was not surprised Altaïr approved. The Assassin had a striking resemblance to Altaïr's companion Maria. Their features were nothing the same, but the tilt of their head and the easy confidence of their stances were familiar.

The lamplighter made a vague gesture towards the Assassin. "Is she a friend of yours?"

"You could say that," Malik said. "Where are we?"

The lamplighter drew a rag from his pocket and began to polish the glass. "Tower of London."

"What's London?" Altaïr asked.

"World's greatest city."

"It doesn't look so great," said Malik. "What year is this?"

"You watch your mouth," the lamplighter said genially. "Eighteen-sixty-eight."

"1285," said Arsames, before Malik could answer.

Altaïr nodded. "We've travelled a hundred years into the future."

Malik was not at all surprised. He decided that it was proof you could get used to anything. "She's moving," he said as the Assassin girl crept forwards. "Shall we follow?"

Arsames shook his head. "How can we?"

Altaïr stepped towards the tower. "We have ways."

"What will we learn chasing after Assassins?" Arsames looked doubtful. "We should find more Templars."

Altaïr shook his head. "Wherever Assassins are, there are also Templars," he said. "This at least has not changed. You can come with us, or stay down here alone."

Arsames shot a glance up at the battlements, but he did not repeat his protest. Malik and Altaïr hauled the Templar up the Tower wall without alerting the guards. They dragged Arsames onto the ramparts just in time to see a troop of scarlet-coated soldiers exchanging the Tower keys in the courtyard below.

"Queen Victoria's keys," called a stocky soldier. "All's well."

Behind a hedge, the Assassin held quiet conversation with a man dressed in a scarlet soldier's uniform. An unconscious man sprawled half-naked at their feet, proof that the night was anything but.

"They should hide the body," Malik whispered to Altaïr as they crouched behind the parapet.

"They should more cautious," Altaïr whispered back.

"You are not the one to tell me that!"

The Assassin left her companion to his subterfuge and climbed a wall, dispatching Templars with murderous efficiency. Malik thought her silver-topped cane a laughable weapon until he watched her wield it. She fought with fluid grace; a thing of grace and shadows. The soldiers were armed with short truncheons; they had no time to draw the long guns strapped to their backs.

Altaïr loped off to hunt among the smokestacks. He returned with bloodied hands and a satisfied expression. Arsames shook his head in disgust.

"I see her!" someone shouted.

Malik no longer wondered how he could understand their words. Below, the Assassin carved a bloody swathe through the Tower's guards. She vanished and appeared again after a moment in low conference with the turncoat guard. He fastened her with chains which did not restrict her freedom of movement, and together they headed towards the Tower's gate.

Altaïr nodded. "A risky gambit," he said approvingly.

"I've caught the Assassin," called her accomplice. "Open the door."

The gate creaked open. The Assassin and her captor shuffled through. The wedge of light cast on the flagstones thinned as the door closed. Outside in the courtyard, the guards gathered the bodies. The Assassins left Arsames in hiding and climbed down to the courtyard. They slipped through the shadows and scaled the Tower with some difficulty. The stones were half a man's height each, set close together, and slick with moisture. Malik wedged his hand into the wall, angling his fingers to press against the chisel marks.

Despite the Tower's forbidding air, the windows had been built for comfort, not defence. The apertures were wider than a man, fashioned from many small panels set into leaded panes. Altaïr and Malik reached the window as the Assassin and her friend walked into the room.

"I found her wandering inside the walls, ma'am," the Assassin's accomplice said with commendable stoicism. "Thought you'd like to speak with her."

Altaïr and Malik hung by one hand outside- Altaïr by preference, and Malik from necessity-and listened as a slender woman with Judas-red hair said. "Welcome, Miss Frye. Do you come to tell me where the Shroud is?" She pronounced _Shroud_ in capitals.

"Another Eden fragment," Altaïr whispered. "What can it do?"

"Keep listening," Malik hissed "Perhaps we'll find out." He waited to hear if Altaïr's guess would be confirmed, but the Assassin refused to reply.

The red-haired woman scowled. "As you wish," she said crisply. "I shall find it without your help. And then I'll strangle you with it."

She turned away and walked towards the window as if the Assassin girl was not worth her time. Altaïr and Malik drew back, anticipating discovery. Malik would have trusted a civilian not to look outside, but the Templars knew Assassin ways. Due to their caution, they missed the first few moments of the fight. The Assassin woman shrugged off her chains and dived towards the Templar. Her accomplice kept the Templars' henchmen at bay.

Before the Assassin reached her the Templar woman whipped around. She held a knife in one pale hand. The Assassin woman ducked below the blade, shoved the Templar forwards, and brought down her arm with fatal force. Her sharpened cane drove through the Templar's back. The redhead collapsed onto a carpet that was the most familiar thing Malik had seen since leaving Persepolis.

The room erupted into chaos. The Assassin snatched a necklace from the corpse's throat, swiped a white handkerchief across the fatal wound, and tucked the bloodstained scarf into her pocket. She drew her blade and dived into the Templar henchmen with enthusiasm and finesse.

"Do you think we should help?" Malik said after a moment. The windows seemed fragile, and large enough to climb through, though he thought it would be a shame to shatter such fine glass.

Altaïr shook his head. "She does not seem to need it." He glanced up at the dark sky as he expected the air to bleach to brightness at any moment as the Apple sent them from one world into the next. "What now?"

Nothing answered. The night's first stars shone faintly between the sooty clouds. Wind caught the brim of Malik's hat and tipped it askew. "Let's go down," Altaïr said at last. "This makes no sense. What did we learn? That we survive? That we cannot change the future?"

Malik pieced together his argument as they descended. "The Apple brought us."

"I know that," Altaïr's voice held an edge of frustration.

"No," Malik said. "Listen. Before we left, the Persian said ' _None in heaven or earth knows the unseen except God. But we can guess_.' Perhaps the Apple doesn't want us to guess. Perhaps it knows."

"Is the Apple more powerful than God?" Altaïr shook his head. "Perhaps, if God does not exist. But there are better places than halfway down a wall to debate philosophy-" He paused. His hand went to his belt, and he stiffened. "Where is the Persian?"

"I assume he's where we left him." Malik turned his gaze to the battlements. "The night's too dark. I can't see him. What-?"

"The Apple!" Altaïr interrupted. He fell the last few feet of stone and gestured to Malik. "It's gone. Hurry!"

"Perhaps it fell," Malik suggested as they set off across the courtyard at a dead run.

"No." Altaïr spat. "It's Arsames. We never should have trusted him."

"The accursed thing does what it will," Malik retorted between snatched breaths. "Even if it's -gods, who puts _hedges_ in a castle? -in the Templar's hands, it won't matter. The accursed thing does what it will."

Altaïr only grunted. They had almost reached the wall when Malik felt a wrench that split the world apart. Each sensation vanished; first the rounded cobbles beneath his boots, then the lamplight's glow, and finally the ache of his grazed fingers and the cold foggy air that caught in his throat. He missed a step, staggered forwards and fell into burning whiteness.

Chapter Six _: New York City, 2012_

Malik hit hard, and rolled across a surface of soft and seamless carpet towards a void. He dug his hand into the carpet, but the smooth fibres slipped beneath his fingers. He found no grip that would arrest his slide. His dagger was missing from its place upon his hip. He caught a blurred impression of white walls surrounded by black and empty space. The ground glistened below, unbelievably far away. Glass towers stabbed the sky, higher than a mountain. He was higher than he had ever been in his life, and the Assassins made an art of climbing to high places. _But if we're up this high, shouldn't there be more wind?_

It all happened in a second. The precipice yawned closer-first an arm's length away, then a hand's breadth. Malik crashed into a thin wall of glass as clear as water with enough force to split his lip. He wiped the blood away and climbed to his knees, running a cautious hand across the glass. The surface held.

He heard a crash over to his left, and saw Altaïr rolling across the carpet, though to Malik's disappointment he caught himself before crashing into the glass. Altaïr rose cat-quickly, and brushed himself down. He wore a white shirt beneath a narrow black jacket, and matching trousers. A narrow strip of black material ran beneath his collar. It suited him.

Malik saw his own reflection in the glass, wearing similar clothes. The foreign garb gave him more freedom of movement than he expected. The room was sparsely furnished in the same stark colours as their outfits. A table made from the same seamless glass as the wall stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by four spindly Frankish chairs. Malik put his hand on the back of the nearest chair. He could not identify the warm, opaque material. Through the huge windows, he saw rows of spangled towers marching towards the horizon. "Where is this place?"

Altaïr picked something from the desk and held it out. Malik saw a slip of paper with names and dates in Frankish script. "2012." He flicked a page. "New York."

"What happened to the old one?" Malik converted the date into _hijra_. "That makes it 1434. We've come a thousand years."

Altaïr shrugged. "The date is unimportant. What matters is the Apple. Have you seen Arsames?"

Malik shook his head, peering at streets that glittered like canyons far below him. The clouds parted for a moment, pale with the streets' reflected light. Between the towers, stars were coming out. Malik made out the Giant's belt, in much the same position as Persepolis. The sight was oddly comforting. _The stars, at least, they have not changed_.

 _The stars have not changed._

Something clicked into place in Malik's mind. He turned to Altaïr, who was prowling the small room like a panther in its cage. "The sky's the same, Altaïr. The constellations haven't changed."

Altaïr shaded his eyes as he gazed through the glass. "Why should they?"

"The heavens change," Malik explained. "The stars move, but very slowly. A few years makes no difference-or even a few hundred. But this sky is the same as the sky at Persepolis a thousand years ago. The same constellations, even. The stars should be different here, as they are in different lands. The sky is the same. That's not possible."

Altaïr slammed his hand against the glass and examined his bruised knuckles. The glass remained flawless. "It feels real enough to me. This is all illusion? Nothing is true?"

"And everything is permitted," Malik said sardonically.

Altaïr scowled. His reflection in the glass scowled back. "The Apple has shown me visions before. But nothing so convincing. Are you sure?"

Malik shrugged. "I wouldn't stake my life on it."

"Such a thing should not be possible. I don't like this."

"Brother, you don't have to like it," Malik said. "Once the Apple is done, it will release us. Until then, we endure."

"As we have through history," Altaïr said grimly. "But first we must find Arsames."

Malik nodded. "And the Apple."

The building was a caliph's maze of small glass-walled rooms, lit by glowing panels. Most of the rooms were empty, and the Assassins found little information about the era in which they found themselves. Malik found their wordless, practised search reassuring. The glass walls fooled the eye and mirrored their reflections, and it was several moments after Malik saw the first stealthy movement that he realised they were not alone.

He saw a man very like Altaïr step into a glass walled room. A glass box glowed upon a table. The man with Altaïr's face wrapped his hand in his sleeve and punched the glass container. The box shattered. The man lifted a glowing artefact from the broken case.

Altaïr frowned. "Is that the Apple?"

Malik peered through the glass. The glowing shape didn't look like an orb. He scanned the walls of glass, trying to determine the most direct way to the room, and saw a dark figure step from the shadows towards Altaïr's doppelganger. "Give me that," he demanded, pulling something from his coat that resembled the guns Malik had seen on Bunker Hill in the same way the glass towers resembled the wooden pirate shacks.

Altaïr moved towards the door, and Malik followed. They went into a glass corridor. Malik saw the distorted reflections of the two men through several walls of glass on the far side of the corridor. Then a dark form stepped forwards and blocked his view.

Altaïr inhaled sharply. "Arsames!"

The Persian wore the same monochrome clothing as they did, but his beard was unmistakeable. He looked up, saw the Assassins, and took off running. Malik and Altaïr followed.

They chased the Templar through a maze of glass. Malik heard crashing as Arsames slammed doors open with force that should have shattered any normal pane of glass. Altaïr took the stairs two at a time, vaulting tables and dodging potted plants with single-minded focus. Malik followed, shoes soundless on the thick carpet. Arsames' lead narrowed with each stride.

They chased him up a narrow flight of stairs onto a flat roof painted with an enormous Roman H that reminded Malik of the tiled Assassin logo on the roof of the Jerusalem Bureau. Instead of tiles, the H was picked out in scarlet paint. Flashing red lights bathed the expanse of bare concrete. Wind tugged at Malik's hair, carrying the sound of sirens that howled like dogs in the night.

Arsames stopped a stride from the tower's unfenced edge. His necktie snapped briskly in the wind. "No closer," he said hoarsely.

Malik held out his hand. "It's all right," he said.

Arsames drew out the Apple. "I know you want the Apple!" Gold gleamed between his spread fingers as he clutched the artefact to his chest. "You can't have it! It's mine! It belongs to the Templars!"

"The Apple doesn't matter," Malik told him, fighting to keep his voice conciliatory. Altaïr beside him was tense as a leashed hound. "Listen. Our bodies wait in Persepolis. This place is an illusion."

Arsames stepped towards the edge. "I don't believe you," he shouted over the wind. "I've seen men die with my own eyes. Seen you kill them! That was no vision!"

"I understand," Malik said, trusting that the Templars would know more of astronomy than Altaïr had. He had no confidence that the Persian would place much weight on what he said, but he had to try. "If you need proof, look to the sky. If the Apple's truly sent us a thousand years into the future, the constellations will be different. Instead, the stars are much the same."

Arsames clutched the Apple to his chest and lifted his eyes to the sky. Malik restrained Altaïr with one hand on his arm.

"Do you think he'll believe us?" Altaïr said.

"Perhaps," Malik said. "You did."

As he finished speaking Arsames wiped his eyes and stared back and forth between them. "What does this mean?"

"Do you see?" Malik said. He licked his split lip, tasting blood. "Nothing is true and everything is permitted. It's as our Creed says."

Arsames looked down at the canyonlike streets and nodded. "Then it won't matter," he said, "if I do this."

He turned and ran for the roof's edge. Altaïr followed like a hound slipped from its leash. When the Templar reached the edge, he did not stop, but threw himself into empty air, both legs and one hand whirling. His right hand clutched the Apple to his chest. Altaïr reached the edge a split second after Arsames flung himself from the tower. His spread fingers closed on empty air.

Arsames fell.

Malik watched him plummet for a handful of heartbeats. In a moment, the Templar was nothing more than a shadow flickering past bright lights, and then he vanished. The Apple did not catch him before he hit the ground. He made no sound Malik heard.

Altaïr stood on the very edge of the roof, the toes of his boots poking out over the drop. "What was that madness? Did the Apple break his mind?"

"I wonder," Malik said. His words echoed in the sudden silence. He turned just as the world around them fracturing into brightness with the sharp sound of shattered glass. Malik saw Altaïr's face reflected in one shard, the Apple in another, Arsames in a third. Tower lights glittered like jewels in the air as the concrete floor beneath them crumbled. Malik dropped into blackness like a stone.

Chapter Seven: _Persepolis, 1200._

He came up coughing, and found himself on hands and knees in the dust. A vast eye stared at him, unblinking. Malik reached out and touched the blood smeared across the statue's eye. It was still wet.

Altaïr sprawled upon the griffin's back. He twitched as Malik watched, shook his head, and righted himself, blinking. Arsames sprawled lifelessly at their feet. Malik bent to check the Templar's pulse. His skull felt like a basket of broken eggs.

"How is he?" Altaïr asked as Arsames' fingers twitched.

"How do you think?" Malik said. "He's dead."

The Apple rolled from the Templar's outstretched hand. Altaïr slid down the griffin's stone flank and scooped the orb up. He rolled it in his hand and tucked it away into his robes. "Did the Apple kill him? Or did we?"

"Does it matter?"

"It should," Altaïr said. "To us, at least. To him, I doubt it makes much difference."

Malik grimaced. "Those accursed orbs have much to answer for."

Altaïr folded his arms and leaned back against the griffin. "As do we. We must learn to understand the Apples. Perhaps we may see more of the future."

"I don't think that's wise." Malik bent down and closed the Persian's eyes.

"Perhaps not. But it is necessary. The more I learn the more questions I have. A man might spend his whole life searching for those answers. Can we change the future? Should we try?"

"Who knows?" Malik shrugged. "You've changed, Altaïr. There was a time when all that you thought of was blades."

"It's been nine years since then."

"Has it been that long?"

"It seems longer," Altaïr agreed. "I blame your company for that."

Malik did not rise to his bait. "We'll be fighting for much longer if the Apple's visions are correct," he said sourly. "It all seems pointless. We are always few. We're often on the wrong side of the law, or enemies to those with power. We're persecuted. History remembers us as villains, and our struggle seems to move in one direction only-chaos."

"But we remain," said Altaïr. "The world changes." He pointed to a dark shape circling above. "But nothing is lost. There are always eagles."

"That's a bat."

"It's a metaphor." Altaïr said. "You're forgetting the most important part. We _win_ , Malik."

"Yet the Templars remain a threat," Malik pointed out. "Don't mention this to the Order, Altaïr. They won't understand where we've been. I can't even draw a map! Don't go preaching change like some mad mystic."

"The Order's not ready," Altaïr said.

"I know I'm not. There are too many questions for my liking." Malik sighed. "And no answers. I miss the old days. We always knew which way to point our blades."

"You must remember the old days differently," Altaïr said. He stretched and wrapped himself in his robe. The sun had slipped beneath the high ridge of the mountains, and the air was cold. "Let's go back to camp. We have what we came for."

They turned away. Across the meadow, stars were coming out.


End file.
